


Five Senses

by dryadgrl13



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Boys Kissing, Daydreaming, Insecure Dorian, Light Angst, M/M, NSFW, Starts off rated M and works its way to E, WIP, more tags to be added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:29:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dryadgrl13/pseuds/dryadgrl13
Summary: A study of love through the eyes of Dorian Pavus. (Alternatively: Dorian appreciates the Inquisitor by using all of his 5 senses). Set in my Enchanter Brianne universe, but you do not have to read the series to understand the characters, setting, or situations. (But you should go read it anyways.)Ch 1: TasteCh 2: ScentCh. 3: SightCh. 4: TouchCh. 5: Sound





	1. Taste

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you that have read “Of Victory Waiting”, I would like to think that this encounter happens after Brianne spies on them flirting with each other in the library (somewhere mid-ch. 27).

Ever since Dorian’s first glimpse of the Inquisitor, he had been entranced by the man’s lips. They were plusher than most men’s, Dorian’s included, and were almost feminine in their shape. Such a trait would normally be off-putting, but for some reason Dorian’s eyes kept returning to Trevelyan’s mouth, no matter where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.

Trevelyan would be carrying on a conversation with The Iron Bull about some such nonsense, and Dorian would be daydreaming of what those lips would look like glistening with saliva and wrapped around his cock. Trevelyan would be eating a meager meal alongside Varric at their camp, and Dorian would be guessing as to what those lips would taste like after he was done eating his hard tack. Trevelyan would be crouching behind an outcropping (waiting for Sera’s signal to attack) and chewing nervously on his bottom lip. Instead of thinking of the imminent skirmish, Dorian would be lost in thoughts of what it would be like to take Trevelyan’s bottom lip between his own teeth. 

At first, Dorian thought it was because of the novelty. Such lips on a man were sinful. The courtesans of Tevinter would be willing to pay in blood magic just to alter their appearances enough to emulate the exact level of plumpness, curve, and color. Eventually, Dorian realized that the rest of the Inquisitor helped make his mouth so appealing. He was easy to laugh and easy to frown. His confident smirks curled Dorian’s toes, and his shy smiles made the mage want to wrap him in a blanket and sit with him by the fire. 

Dorian was not to be blamed for eventually giving in to temptation. It was his greatest struggle, after all. He was a saint for holding out for as long as he had. He had known the Inquisitor for two of the longest weeks of his life before his resolve eventually broke. Dorian cornered the man in the library alcove the mage had claimed for himself, and finally tasted those lips that had been driving him to drink almost every night.

There should be a canticle written in the Chant of Light dedicated solely to Caldwell Trevelyan’s lips. Dorian had been worried that the man was all talk and no action, seeing as he flirted outrageously with anything that moved, yet had spent most of his life as a southern templar. Dorian doesn’t know what they teach templars in the Free Marches, but he wonders if seduction is one of the subjects. Trevelyan’s kiss was as close to a religious experience as Dorian had ever had.

After the initial surprise of being backed into the small corner behind Dorian’s chair--where the hard bookshelf meets the cold cobblestone wall--Trevelyan regained his composure. Confident hands wound their way into Dorian’s hair as the Inquisitor tilted the mage’s head exactly the way he wanted it, and then dove into the kiss.

It was a siege that Dorian wasn’t prepared for. He was half expecting Trevelyan to shove him away and laugh at the silly Vint who thought the Inquisitor’s flirting was serious. Dorian was ever so thankful that he had read the man’s cues correctly.

If Dorian had thought Trevelyan’s lips looked soft, the reality was even better. He couldn’t think of a word outside of plush to describe the feel of them sliding against his own, mainly because it was difficult to think of anything at all. The corners of the Inquisitor’s mouth were slightly chapped, and before Dorian knew what was happening, his tongue had darted out to soothe the irritated flesh.

The Inquisitor’s fingers tightened in Dorian’s hair, and that was all the warning he had before Trevelyan opened his own mouth to lick his way inside of Dorian’s. 

For the first few moments, all he could focus on was that the man moulded to the front of him tasted of peppermint. Dorian vaguely recalled the tea Trevelyan made himself every night at camp before turning in. He had never cared for that particular herb himself, but it tasted delicious on the tongue of the man caught between Dorian’s body and the side of the bookshelf. The mage lost his train of thought when Trevelyan’s tongue moved against his own, and a soft moan passed from his mouth into Dorian’s. 

Venhedis, Dorian was turning hard in his breeches. He couldn’t remember the last time a kiss had moved him in such a way. He needed to regain some semblance of control. That was what this kiss had originally been about. Dorian’s obsession with the Inquisitor’s mouth had left him feeling out of control, which was something Dorian hated above all else. Pulling at the dregs of his willpower, Dorian disengaged from the kiss and turned his head to the side under the guise of catching his breath.

The mage opened his mouth to say something charming and witty that would signal the end of this encounter, but the only noise that escaped him was a strangled sound in response to the Inquisitor running his nose along the line of Dorian’s cheekbone until he reached his ear and bit down.

The sting was immediately soothed by Trevelyan’s soft lips moving against the mage’s skin. His tongue darted out to lightly flick at Dorian’s earlobe, and the mage heard him whisper hoarsely, “I like the way you taste.”

It wasn’t the first time Dorian had heard those words. Not by a long shot. But it was the first time someone has said them in response to a simple kiss. The relative innocence of the situation had Dorian’s breath hitching. Trevelyan took that as a sign of encouragement, and proceeded to lick his way down the line of Dorian’s neck.

And if Dorian arched his head to the side to provide him better access, well who could blame him?

Trevelyan’s teeth were scraping along the curve of where Dorian’s neck met his shoulder, when the sound of a door closing nearby startled them apart. Thankfully, the Inquisitor’s hands had left Dorian’s hair, so it was a simple matter of backing away from the man lounging indolently against the wall, who was staring at Dorian as though he was an oasis in the middle of a desert.

Trevelyan looked thoroughly debauched. His lips were shiny with their combined saliva and swollen even larger than their normal size. The dark pink of them had transformed into a color closer to cherry, and Trevelyan’s pupils were dilated to comical proportions. Or, it would be comical if Dorian wasn’t certain he was in an identical state as the man before him.

Trevelyan reached out as though to draw him back, but Helisma began speaking with someone nearby, and the illusion of privacy was shattered.

Dorian cleared his throat and straightened his clothing (not that it was terribly mussed to begin with). For some reason, Trevelyan began laughing. Dorian would be irritated if the laugh wasn’t so bright and cheerful. The Inquisitor straightened himself up as well, and started to leave Dorian’s hidden niche.

The mage opened his mouth to say something that would have mollified his own insecurity, but Trevelyan silenced him by placing a palm against his cheek. The man leaned into his personal space again and rumbled a good bye in a tone much too erotic to be heard anywhere outside of a bedroom. Unable to let anyone have the last word, and painfully away of how hard he was from a kiss and a whisper in his ear, Dorian caught the man’s mouth one last time in his own version of farewell.

Mmm. Peppermint was going to be a flavor that Dorian would have to look out for in the future. Trevelyan smiled against the mage’s mouth and let the kiss linger a moment longer before turning and exiting with a wink and an uptick of those sinful lips of his.


	2. Scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated M for mature (As in Dorian needs to put his big boy pants on and deal with his emotions better.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you following my Enchanter Brianne series, I imagine this happening between "Of Victory Waiting..." and "From The Lips..."

Dorian was in agony over the smell of sword oil.

It was everywhere. It was inescapable. And it smelled exactly like whatever product Caldwell drenched himself and all his belongings in.

No. _The Inquisitor._ Not Caldwell, and especially not Cal. Dorian had made his bed, and now he has to lie in it.

But by Andraste’s flaming arsehole, why did the metaphorical sheets have to smell like cloves?

It took Dorian an embarrassingly long time to figure out the common factor between the scent of sword oil and the Inquisitor. Trevelyan always smelled faintly of cloves. It was in his hair and in his clothes. It lingered on his skin even after a full day of sweating in the heat of the Hinterlands. Dorian didn’t know what properties cloves had that led them to be used as an ingredient in sword oil, but the mage was close to requisitioning a different kind of polishing agent being made for the warriors of the Inquisition. Until then, the dilemma Dorian found himself in was insufferable! 

Agony was the exact and appropriate term for the state he was in. He couldn’t leave his bedroom without walking past a queue of soldiers and being hit with a whiff of their cleaned and sharpened swords. Just like that, Dorian would be hard and aching for the man he had decided he could not let himself have, and Dorian would have to turn right back around to his bedroom. Sometimes he hid in his room until he had calmed down, and sometimes he’d take himself in hand, remembering what it felt like to be held in Caldwell’s arms as he traced Dorian’s jawline with his lips, and whispered in Dorian’s ear all the things the mage made him feel.

 _The Inquisitor,_ damn it all! Not Caldwell. Never again Caldwell.

As much as Dorian thought it wise to put distance between himself and his fearless leader, he couldn’t stay in Skyhold. It truly was insufferable to be turned into the hormone ridden, pubescent shell of the man he once was. That is to say: a man that used to be in control of his own libido.

So Dorian kept insisting on going out into the field with the Inquisitor. He made sure that the man knew that he wasn’t going just to be near him. Dorian made his intentions clear. He had sworn an oath to serve the Inquisition in its aim to stop the Venatori and prevent the ending of the world. He could best do that by fighting at the Inquisitor’s side wherever the Inquisitor went.

Being near him in the field was bearable until the inevitable ending of each day. Dorian never had to share a tent with him--knew he absolutely could not trust himself to share a tent with him. Bull was always willing to let Dorian sleep with him. (Next to him! As if Dorian would let that brute touch a hair on his body!) Varric also welcomed the mage into his space when they were grouped together, and the Inquisitor never showed any kind of jealousy or disappointment the following morning. Not that Dorian was looking for him to do anything of the sort. But still…

The Inquisitor always cleaned his sword in the evening. It was pure torture, sitting across the fire, watching with longing the hands that he wanted so desperately to feel again. Trevelyan’s hands were large and perfectly proportional to his towering frame. His thick fingers held and smoothed the leather cloth along the length of his blade, spreading the cleaning agent in long, gentle strokes. His proximity to the fire meant the combined smell of the oil and leather and iron heated and rose to spread out across camp, invading Dorian’s senses no matter how far away he was sitting.

Oh to be that sword in those hands. Oh to be laid out across that man’s lap as he gently worked that clove-scented oil along the length of Dorian’s body. Oh to be able to turn the tables on him: to take that maddening scent and stroke and knead it into the Inquisitor’s body until Dorian’s name was the only sound falling from those plush lips. 

This was the mage’s nightly torture while out in the field with the man he desperately want to claim as his own, but couldn’t bring himself to. Dorian was done with fleeting dalliances. He was in a country where two men in a relationship was not only normal, but sometimes expected. He was halfway towards the future he had always wanted for himself, but had stumbled upon the wrong man to start falling in love with. Dorian could not give an inch, because he’d eventually want it all, and he knew that Trevelyan was meant for s better person than Dorian could ever hope to be. 

Bull was so disarming, so convincing in his role as mercenary captain, that Dorian had almost forgotten he was still Ben-Hassrath. One evening, as their group camped along the Storm Coast in search of the Wardens, Dorian entered his tent to find Bull already curled up and sleeping. There was a small, dark bottle in the middle of the space where Dorian meant to set up his sleeping pallet. He dropped onto his knees, picked up it, uncorked it, and almost emptied the contents on top of the Qunari’s head.

Blasted spies and their ability to see through everything. Dorian swore softly and quickly recorked the bottle to the sound of Bull chuckling.

“You wanna put that stuff to good use?” his tent mate offered.

“I’d sooner let Blackwall near me,” Dorian sniffed, shoving the bottle of sword oil into the bottom of his pack.

“Might wanna reconsider. It’d sure make an impression on the Boss.”

“Obviously. My magnificent personage in the throws of passion would move any to hear it.”

“So?” Bull purred, sliding closer to the mage. “Let’s give him something to scowl about tomorrow.”

Dorian frowned down at the Qunari. While it was heartening to hear that Trevelyan would be jealous of Dorian finding his pleasures elsewhere, the thought of being intimate with anyone other than the man currently on first watch made the mage’s stomach turn. That was going to be a problem in the long run, especially if Dorian planned on giving up the Inquisitor for good. Celibacy was a terrible look for Dorian, as any of his old friends from Tevinter would gladly tell him. 

Dorian shook his head and forced himself to smile. “I know how irresistible I am, so I’ll forgive this sudden lack of decorum. Do stay on your side of the tent for the rest of the night, or else I’ll be forced to burn it down around you.”

“The offer’s always on the table,” Bull assured him as he did as Dorian asked and slid back to his separate space.

Sleep eluded the mage for the rest of the night. It was for the best that they headed back to Skyhold the following day, as Dorian was looking forward to hiding in his room for as long as he could get away with, (and as Bull phrased it) putting his clove-scented present to good use.

**Author's Note:**

> My muse is a terrible person. I have three other pieces I'm currently working on, and she makes my brain latch onto this idea and won't let me write a word of anything else.


End file.
